Why I Love Him
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: A series of drabbles in which Christine explains why she loves Erik despite his flaws.
1. His Face

**Author's Note****: This series of drabbles is a bit different from anything else I've ever written, so I'm a bit anxious about its reception. It is based on several different versions of Erik, including the 2004 movie version, the stage version, and Leroux/Kay so hopefully it will appeal to all types of POTO fans. It is very poetic/symbolic in nature, so if you don't like that kind of thing, you might want to consider checking out one of my other pieces that is actually a story rather than a bunch of drabbles. Despite it being the oddball of my writing, I am rather pleased with how it turned out. I'd love to know what you think, so if you like it, please leave a review! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer****: I don't own _Phantom of the Opera _or any of its characters. Leroux, Kay, Webber, and Schumacher do own it and have done a marvelous job telling Erik's story in several versions that we all know and love. This is a tribute to them and all our favorite Eriks.**

**His Face**

His face is like a map, riddled with winding roads and twisted turns. It's easy to get lost in the landscape when your only compass is the sun, the harsh light of day which exposes every flaw.

I have walked that path before—the path of fear—where all you can see is the darkness within, where the wind in the treetops turns to whispers in your ear and the branches reach out to grab you and even the most innocent field of wildflowers is overshadowed by the black clouds that block out the sun. And suddenly, the songbird goes silent, his innocent melody giving way to the haunting howl of a wolf. His song is every bit as beautiful, but it sends shivers up your spine. The thunder rumbles in the distance. And then the storm breaks free—it rages and rips and shatters your dreams because in that moment you realize that the bird and wolf are one and the same. Like a hurricane, it tosses you to and fro. Your world is falling apart and your fears are crashing in around you and you wonder if you'll survive…And then the wind is still and there's nothing but a slow, steady rain and you're crying and he's crying and you're clinging to one another as if your life depends on it, though in reality you know that you're both drowning and all you're doing is dragging each other down as the rivers overflow their banks and you're sinking down…down…down… And you can't breathe and you can't think and just when you think your world is going to end you open your eyes to see his lips on yours, breathing life into your body and fire into your soul. He thinks that you saved him, but you know, if you're completely honest, that he saved you as well.

I no longer walk the path of fear, for I know these roads. I know every twist and turn, every imperfection. My fingertips have memorized the map—the mountains, the valleys, the gullies and the streams. My lips have tasted their sweet waters, kissed every salty tear that should not have fallen from his eyes. His face is no longer a mystery to me, yet even now sometimes I find myself getting lost in his features for a different reason. In fact, sometimes, I can't even see the map at all…as if the roads had been leveled and mountains worn smooth. This time my heart is my compass, and somehow the flaws I'd seen before don't seem to matter anymore. His face may not be normal—his map may not be perfect—but until you lose your way, you will never know the beauty that lies just beyond the charted borders.

I love his face because I know his heart is beautiful.


	2. His Eyes

**His Eyes**

His eyes are like two emerald pools—deep pools, bottomless pools, beautiful but deadly—the kind you want to jump into even though you know you cannot swim. You could dive for miles in those pools and never reach the bottom—you'd suffocate first. And yet, somehow, you cannot resist trying to find some kind of solid ground—some kind of evidence that these pools are just like any other. There is a bottom. There must be!

But these are no ordinary ponds. And somewhere in your heart of hearts, you know that. You know that somewhere, far beneath the surface, there are underwater caves that hold cherished gemstones. You haven't seen them yet, but you know they are there. Sometimes, on a quiet day, when the surface is a sheet of glass and the morning rays are at just the right angle, you can see them shimmer in the sunlight, flashing like a mermaid's tail for just a split second before they disappear. You could reach them if you tried. Maybe, if you just leaned out a little farther, dug your hand a little deeper—don't reach out too far or you'll fall in headfirst!

And you can't swim.

So, reluctantly, you pull back and sit there on the bank, watching your reflection and wondering why you never learned. If only you weren't so afraid. If only it wasn't so deep! But the pool is deep, and you're just a little girl. Right now you need someone to hold your hand. Right now you need the shallows. But you won't stay a child forever. Someday you'll come back. And maybe then you'll see that the pools weren't quite so deep as you thought they were…but the diamonds are just as precious as you imagined.

I love his eyes because they are the windows to his soul.


	3. His Lips

**His Lips**

His lips are like fire on my skin—passionate, possessive. The flames are closing in and there is nowhere to escape—and I'm not sure I want to. The heat is overwhelming. The fumes are intoxicating. And soon I know I'll start to swoon. But I don't care. Because I know he'll catch me if I fall.

My cheeks are flushed. The blood is racing. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I know it's all an act and yet it somehow feels so real—his touch, his scent, his sweet caress. And I can't help but wonder what it might take like to kiss those lips—those misshapen, malformed lips that once seemed so repulsive.

Would his kiss taste like wine?—No, no! That's too refined!—My Angel is rough around the edges—broken wings and broken dreams and broken hearts. More like rum—sweet on the tongue but it burns within your chest.

Burning, burning, everything is burning! The opera house is burning!

_Why, Christine? Why?_

And the question is burning in my mind. I don't know why. And I don't know _who_. Who do I choose? How _can_ I choose when they both mean the world to me?

But he makes the decision for me. Now the fire is in his eyes and in his words—dripping hatred, oozing poison—kerosene to fuel the flames. The roof is caving in. The world is falling apart—falling embers all around us. But my eyes are on him and now my heart is beating faster than ever. I am so afraid—afraid because I know that this kiss will seal our fate. It is the final nail in the coffin, the final chance to say goodbye—though I do not know whether it is my childhood or my future that I am bidding farewell.

And then our lips brush and our hands touch and I can feel his heart racing even faster than mine. Soft at first, like angel's wings. He seems so unsure. And for a moment, I think he's even more frightened than I am. He pulls back, but I pull him closer. I don't know why. It just feels right. And the kiss deepens and I can feel the flames licking at my skin. It's killing me but I want more. I know where I belong and that is in his arms. The fire is gone now, the fervent flames reduced to ash—ashen like countenance. The rain has come—a soft spring rain, the kind that comes even when the sun is shining. His bloated lips are curled up in a smile, but I can hardly tell it through his tears.

_Go! Go now, and leave me! _Leave me here to die alone. Leave while my heart is still in one piece—because if you stay too long, I know I'll never be able to let you go.

I feel my own heart torn in two. I cannot leave, yet I know that I must go. And so I leave you with this ring—this promise that I will return, for my heart belongs to you.

_Goodbye, my love_, I almost say. But I catch myself and bite my tongue. _Whenever you think of me, I hope that it is only with the fondest memories._

I love his lips because his kiss makes the world stop turning.


	4. His Voice

**His Voice**

His voice is like a riddle. Is it the voice of a demon or an angel that I hear? A ghost or a man? I once thought that I knew, but now I'm not so sure. Could an angel speak with such fire in his tongue and such menace in his voice? Could the groaning of the dead be so hauntingly seductive? Yet no demon could speak of love the way he does. No man could sing with such perfection. He is everywhere and nowhere. One moment, he is high up in the balcony, the next, he's whispering in my ear—yet when I turn around there is nothing but the sound of my own erratic heartbeat. I am alone here in the dark, but I can sense his presence. And, strangely, it is not as unsettling as it should be.

For many, it is the things not seen which are most fearful, but for me they are a comfort. _Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen._ My father taught me well that faith does not rely on sight, nor does love rely on beauty. _ For the Lord sees not as man sees; for man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart._ And somehow I feel as though I've failed him now, failed my father and the Angel of Music—for I never once questioned that magnificent voice 'til I saw for myself what a horrid visage lay beneath the smooth porcelain I thought to conceal an angel's glory. Oh the horror! The horror! Could an angel's voice have such a face? Could an angel's eyes light up with such a blaze?

But no demon would beg as I'd seen him do. No demon would shy from my touch as if in fear of being stuck.

As I walk away tonight, white dress drenched in water and tears, I have to swallow back a sob. I can hear the mob approaching, and I know it's all my fault. For though I now know that he is just a man, they will not see him as such. The angels wept tonight, my love—they weep for you.

I love his voice because it lets me know that I am never alone.

NOTE: Scripture verses in italics are from Hebrews 11:1 and 1 Samuel 16:7.


	5. His Hands

**His Hands**

His hands are long and slender, his fingers like spiders crawling over my skin, a tingling sensation that sends chills up my spine and quickens my pulse. There is venom in his fangs, a poison more potent than any substance known to man. It numbs the mind and the body as he weaves a web of music, those skeletal, skinny fingers caressing a song from the keys. It is a siren's call and I am the sailor. He is the spider and I am the fly. Yet I go willingly to my doom—his living bride—so that I may give him life. Even if it means the end of all that I have ever known. Oh, Erik! You will be the death of me, and yet I love you still.

Those hands have killed a thousand men. Those hands are stained with blood. They have bruised and they have broken. They have strangled and they have smothered. Even now I sometimes dream I feel those cold, dead fingers on my throat. I cannot breathe! I cannot think! And there is blackness all around and I am falling…falling…falling…

And yet…those hands have held our little child. Those hands are filled with love. They have caressed and they have calmed. They have stroked and they have soothed. Even now I am amazed as I watch those spindly fingers brush a tear from our daughter's eye, the cool pad of his thumb a comfort against her reddened cheeks. I cannot fathom this man. I cannot comprehend how he has changed. But there was goodness in him all along. Of that I'm certain.

I love his hands because they fit so perfectly in mine.


	6. His Arms

**His Arms**

His arms are like an open door, beckoning me closer to seek the mysteries of the other side. My curiosity is burning, and he knows it but I dare not step any closer, for once the gates have closed I know that there's no going back. What lies beyond the door I do not know. Is it the warm embrace of a beloved friend and angel or the vice grip of a murderer? Either way there is no escape, so it's best to be sure of one's fate before taking the proverbial leap of faith. Curiosity killed the cat, you know, though Erik does seem to be rather fond of cats so perhaps I've naught to fear…then again, Ayesha is a special case. I see her glittering blue eyes, mere slits of light against the chocolate brown fur of her face, glaring at me from the armchair in the corner, daring me to take the plunge.

I recall a story from childhood of a girl in a room with many doors. Some were tall and others small, each leading to a different world—each with its own treasures, each with its own consequences. I am that girl now, confused and overwhelmed by the possibilities and choices. But only I can choose the door to my future and whatever choice I make, it will undoubtedly decide my fate forever.

There is a door now to my right—a magnificent door carved of the finest mahogany, its surface richly decorated in designs, inlaid with jewels and engraved with gold. It is a beautiful door, a familiar door that I have seen before in my childhood, in my dreams. But it is not nearly so alluring as the mysterious door to my left.

It is a rather plain door. The paint is peeling, the wood is scratched. And I'm fairly certain I saw a few termites worming their way in and out of the woodwork. It's barely on its hinges now, just barely hanging on to the rusted old bolts that keep it upright. In fact, it could collapse at any moment. And yet perhaps a bit of love and care is all that this door needs—a bit of sanding, a fresh coat of paint, perhaps some new hinges—yes! I can see it looking quite nicely now. A bit homely, perhaps—a bit quaint—but lovely nonetheless.

I have made my choice.

Carefully, cautiously I take a step forward and—with a bit more confidence than I'm actually feeling—open the door to the left…and, surprisingly, I find that the room beyond is warm and inviting.

Ayesha lazily lifts her whiskers in what can only be described as a smile and rolls onto her back, looking at me with her upside-down grin as if to say, "I told you so." And for once, I agree with her. I know, without a doubt, that I have made the right decision.

I love his arms because they hold me close, and I know they'll never let me go.


	7. His Legs

**His Legs**

His legs are long and nimble, his movements lithe and agile like a cat, like a shadow. To walk and to dance are one and the same for him, for every step is so graceful, so flawlessly executed that one can hardly tell whether his sauntering gait is merely intended as a casual stroll or an elegant waltz. He glides across the floor as if his feet are scarcely on the ground. If life is a dance, then he is the embodiment of music—the very soul of the melody expressed! Sometimes the music is soft and sweet, like a lullaby; sometimes wild and fierce, like a tarantella. But always he is there to catch me when I fall. When my pirouettes falter and my soubresauts stumble and all seems to be spinning out of control, he never fails to sweep me off my feet.

And I sit in his lap, a child again—looking for a father, looking for a friend—and he is everything I've ever wanted and everything I'll ever need. But after all of his deception he is not worth of such praise (or so he thinks) and he falls down to his knees, begging for forgiveness—from me and from God—for every fault and every flaw until I, too, am on my knees, wrapping my arms around him. Later he'll be ashamed of showing weakness, but I know that it is strength.

I love his legs because when he's on his knees is when he stands the tallest.


	8. His Feet

**His Feet**

His feet are like a bird on the wind, always restless, always moving—never content to stay in one place for too long. But learning to fly is never easy. He was fully equipped, of course—he had feathers and wings and a tail like any other bird—and a song that could rival the lark's. But the sparrow is a plain little bird that is often overlooked for the flashier finches and bluebirds and cardinals. Even the little sparrow has a mother, but he did not, and lacking such luxuries, was forced to teach himself.

And so he spread his little wings and leapt from the highest point he could find but the ground was too far and wind wasn't right and in a matter of moments he was spiraling down, landing on the cobblestone street with a resounding smack, bruised and broken like a wilted flower on a hot summer day. The other birds noticed but did not care, for they had their own lives to lead and did not have time for troubled little sparrow. The cats crept in, looking for an easy meal, but he pecked and he squirmed and he fought until at last they let him go—for while they could break his wings, they could not break his spirit. He lived like that, hiding among the shrubs and thickets, stealing bread crumbs from the streets—but for an animal meant to soar among the stars, restriction to the ground is torture.

And then one day he heard _her_ sing. Another sparrow with a broken wing and a broken heart. Her song was melancholy yet melodious beyond compare. And although he himself could not fly, he was determined that _she _would. Somehow, he would teach her. Somehow, she would learn. For to let such beauty and innocence wither away would be a crime that not even _he_ was willing to commit.

Years passed, and he watched her grow—watched her blossom and watched her soar. He watched as her soft downy feathers turned to copper-brown silk and her simple chirps turned into a harmonious song. He watched as she thrived and watched as she grew…and he knew that one day she would fly away.

So he put her in a gilded cage and he clipped her wings, fearful of losing his mate. He brought her food and sang for her and cared for her in every way. But she was not happy. And her feathers started to dull and her song started to fade and no matter how he tried to please her, he knew it would never be enough. For she wanted freedom and light and air and sky. She wanted to feel the wind in her feathers and the sun on her face. And that was something he could not offer.

So one day, he left the cage open and although it hurt to see her go, it had nearly killed him to see her lifeless and unhappy under the shelter of his wings.

_If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, it was never meant to be._

His feet carried him away from home, around the world and back again—to the gypsy camp, to Persia, to hell and back again. (And I swear he has the scars to prove it.) But every songbird knows his home, and in the end he returned to the country of his birth—to the Paris Opera House—right where I was and right where he needed to be. Perhaps my father did send me an angel. Perhaps God sent us to each other so that we might both learn how to fly.

I love his feet because they led him here into my arms.


	9. His Back

**His Back**

His back is like a mass of writhing snakes, each angry, white-hot scar a reminder of the vicious bite of the whip. The serpent of old was a slippery fellow, tongue dripping lies and teeth dripping venom—and these snakes are no different. They wriggle their way into his dreams, into his mind, whispering of memories he'd rather forget. They lie in wait, coils tense in anticipation. At long last, they strike. There is the hiss of leather through air, the sting of leather on flesh. And another snake forms—long and red and more potent than his brothers, for he is still new, still feeding off the lifeblood of the host. Up comes the whip again, and the snakes all writhe expectantly. But tonight things will end differently. Tonight the predator becomes the prey. In one quick motion the boy is up and the whip is in his hand. He is the master of the serpents now, the master of his pain. And the snakes are hungry and the snakes are wild and they wrap around the gypsy's throat with no regret or remorse and he falls to the ground—now nothing but a corpse.

Erik wakes up. His breathing is heavy. Beneath his sweat-drenched shirt, the ghosts of the serpents still shiver underneath my fingertips.

I love his back because each and every scar has made him who he is today.


	10. His Chest

**His Chest**

His chest is like the sandy shoreline of the beaches of my childhood—soft and warm, the ripples of the ocean waves imprinted in the tide pools. Lying on the beach with my cheek against the sand, I can hear the heartbeat of the ocean, the song of the sea.

Sometimes it swells with pride; the mighty waves crash upon the shore with a dignity and majesty that cannot be surpassed.

Sometimes it is wild and reckless, angry as a hurricane—the winds pick up, the waters churn, the earth itself seems to tremble in fear.

And sometimes it is quiet, soft and silent as the gentle rise and fall of the tide, as if the ocean itself was breathing. It is in these quiet moments when the sea begins to ponder things. If you listen closely, you may hear his thoughts carried in the mournful hymn of a lonely whale or the softly falling rain of a midsummer storm or the gentle whisper of the night wind. It is in these quiet moments when the sea clings to the earth, a warm blanket on her shoulders, a warm scarf around her neck. For while the earth has weathered many storms, she knows that she needs the sea—for they are inseparable and individually incomplete.

I love his chest because it proves he has a heart—even when he thinks he doesn't.


	11. His Heart

**His Heart**

His heart is like a fragile sculpture carved from stone. Weathered and worn from years in the rain, it's hard to imagine how beautiful it must have been when it was new, first hewn from the Rock and shaped into a human soul. Even now the craftsmanship is exquisite; the Artist knew that this piece was special all along. But as all great artists know, a masterpiece is oft maligned by those who do not understand, and this piece was no exception. Such a delicate work requires handling with care, but the world was not careful and neither was I. Again and again it fell to the floor. Again and again it was broken.

Oh, but this heart of stone could have been a fountain of love, had it only been tapped a bit more gently! Oh, but this heart, so heavy with sin, could have been great if only someone had given it a chance!

But it's never too late to start over. It's never too late to forgive. Slowly, he is beginning to pick up the pieces. Slowly, we are putting them back together. And slowly—ever so slowly—he is learning to love again.

I love his heart because it is not perfect, but it's coming closer every day.

I love him because he is simply Erik. And that is good enough for me.

NOTES:

There are several biblical references in this chapter. The reference to "the Rock" (God) is an allusion to Psalm 18:2 which reads, "The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer…." Tapping the rock gently to produce a fountain is a reference to Numbers 20 in which God instructs Moses to speak to a rock to cause it to gush forth water, but instead of speaking to the rock, Moses strikes the rock twice. The water is still produced, but God punishes Moses by preventing him from entering the Promised Land.


End file.
